


'cause you can't fall in love alone

by feistymuffin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, No Hale Fire, No Werewolves, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10082537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistymuffin/pseuds/feistymuffin
Summary: Derek's favourite day to hate has shown its ugly face again, but this year it brings him some good along with all the stupid.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm like two weeks late for the Valentine's Day wave (oops) but I've had this fic sitting in my documents for about a year or so, unfinished and veeery tempting, and I finally got around to getting 'er done.
> 
>  
> 
> Title is from Thriving Ivory's "Love Alone"

Derek is not a nice guy.

He doesn't play favourites, with friends--not that he has that many to deliberate favouritism over--or students. He's a tough marker and never allows a mistake to go without red-inked scrutiny, no matter how minor. He doesn't permit any layabouts during his lectures (They're not technically his, not by a long shot, but Dr. Leski may as well have handed them to Derek considering how often he shows up to them to "supervise" anymore) and he kicks out anyone who doesn't take the classes seriously. His face is almost always unsmiling in public, provoking more fear responses than anything in his students, which he prefers to lust or want of any calibre (up to and including what his brother Jason calls a terror boner, where one gets absurdly turned on by someone who's scarier than they are hot, but only just. This is not to be confused with a terri-boner, another term of Jason's, which alludes to an ill-timed erection, usually in socially unforgiving situations). Derek goes out of his way to be brisk with students, too, so none of them get the idea that he's in any way interested or even moderately encouraging anyone's affection. He tries his best to essentially be the most demonic prescence in the chemistry department--hell, on the entire campus. _So why,_ he wonders dismally, _does this have to happen to me?_

Teetering somewhere between tamping down his baseless, bubbling anger and wondering where the hell he went wrong in life, Derek stands rigidly and stares down at the red and pink hoard before him. Flower arrangements, chocolates, a diverse array of teddy bears and multifarious heart-shaped things cover his desk and the surrounding area, nearly overtaking his small private office outside Dr. Leski's office. It's not actually as bad as Derek's making it seem. There are only about ten bouquets and no more than twenty-five gifts total, so really it's just a nuisance rather than an actual off-putting problem--but he's not about to admit that, because he _still has to fucking deal with this nonsense._ He grabs the Valentine's cards and addressed tags from each bouquet, bear, and box of chocolates with a deep scowl and deposits them promptly in the garbage, then scatters the flowers all over the office--his own and the main area down the hall where the others' desks are--before any of the other chemistry postgrads show up. The stuffed animals and other things he throws unceremoniously into the corner by his filing cabinet, and the chocolates are stacked in a pile on Erica's desk.

_Valentine's Day,_ Derek thinks wearily, and collapses into the chair behind Boyd's desk. _Why couldn't my parents have spawned someone unappealing? Why couldn't I have had a big nose, or wide-set eyes, or a creepy sneer?_ Abruptly he's reminded of his uncle, Peter, who does have a not-quite-but-very-very-close-to-creepy look to him, and Derek immediately regrets ever having thought it in the first place.

Moments later the door opens and his fellow postgrads Isaac, Boyd and Erica file in together, bags over their shoulders and in the middle of idle conversation. But upon entering their workspace the three pause, taking in the new atmosphere.

"Hoo boy, it sure is festive in here," Erica observes. Her eyes glue on Derek, too piercing for his liking. He stares down into his bag as he paws around in it and ignores her.

Boyd meanders into the room and lingers near where Derek sits, sniffing at a bouquet of pink roses on his desk while smirking at him. "Someone's popular."

"Unwanted attention," Derek grouches, flipping open his tablet and standing to let Boyd at his desk. He leans against the corner of it instead and pokes at the touchscreen--with what he knows is an excess of force--to update his files for the day's lectures. In a delayed act of common courtesy Derek nudges his bag towards him with his foot and out of Boyd's way.

Erica sighs as she unloads her laptop. She lets her gaze drift knowingly from the tower of chocolates to fall on Derek again, who sees her genuine look of concern and affection and resolutely looks away. "I worry about you, honey. All those people, and I bet you didn't read a single card."

"Unwanted," Derek reiterates loudly. Grinding his teeth prevents him from yelling, at least. Erica throws a box of chocolates to Isaac, who grins and immediately rips the plastic off of it to begin demolishing it.

"Not all of them are going to be your students, you know," Boyd tells him. Derek shrugs as he swipes through the fourteen unread emails in his inbox.

"Statistically it is probably a large majority of students," Isaac inputs somewhat unhelpfully. He's already settled behind his desk and his laptop is open and waiting, completely ignored while he concentrates on the chocolates in front of him. Derek quirks a dark eyebrow at him, smiling just slightly when Boyd and Erica both give Isaac dirty looks. He deflates under their ire and offers Derek what he thinks is supposed to be an encouraging smile, but mostly just looks like he's in pain.

Derek doesn't bother to respond. His aversion to the whole situation goes deeper than that. Undergrad students or not, he's almost certain that the holiday itself--how anyone can call this kind of... _festivity_ an actual holiday is beyond him--has just devolved completely into a money grab for florists and chocolatiers. It's twenty-four hours of unending sycophantic disaster for anyone who's gorgeous by typical social standards, like Derek, and it's largely just another excuse for drifting, unattached people to get excited about the fact that they're in a world primed and polished for meaningless sex. 

_Valentine's Day was once well-meaning, probably,_ he concedes to himself. Saint Valentine wed fugtives and escapees of the Roman empire, even knowing that he was threatening his own livelihood, and was imprisoned. He sent a letter to his beloved from his captivity signed "Your Valentine", and everyone everywhere is inspired by the purity and eternalism of true love. But since those days, it's become little more than a special day of fornication that exemplifies the diversity of the Kama Sutra. As an added bonus, consumerism overtakes the common sense factor of most people and the companies responsible rake in profit as everybody clamours for ways to spend exorbitant amounts of money in one day, on one person. The people who are together go out for expensive meals, exchange expensive and likely sparkly gifts, and fuck like bunnies while wearing expensive lingerie. Meanwhile the people who are single are given a valid reason to go out, get to atmospheric levels of intoxication, find someone else who's just as alone and sad as they are, and then fuck like bunnies. Really, really drunk bunnies. 

Derek blinks down at the notes on his tablet, seeing a smudge of red in his peripherals, and he scoffs to himself. He knows he's being overdramatic, and he can practically hear his mother's voice in his head: "What about what it _stands_ for, pup? What about _love?"_ (She'd call him "pup", too, because she knows that even though he bitches every time someone calls him that, whether it's Mom, Dad, or Uncle Peter, he's always secretly loved his childhood nickname.)

And the thing is, he's not negatively biased against love or romance--or at least he's convinced himself he's not. But his cumulative dating experience, while not necessarily low in quality, is looking a lot like "never works out, always with alarming temporal efficiency" is its best descriptor. Whenever he can withstand someone enough to care, he still never cares beyond a small increase above average, friendly affection, and then the other person gets insulted when he acts like he doesn't give a fuck, which... isn't wrong, but will forever remain a horrible, horrible thing to tell your partner. He could blame his romantic ineptitude on a sheltered upbringing (his parents like to think they're not downright hippies, a fully ridiculous statement considering they live in the middle of a wildlife preserve, grow a majority of their own food in a quarter-acre garden, and homeschooled all their children until the beginning of high school), but Derek thinks he's probably just getting good at lying to himself.

Erica flounces over and starts showering rose petals on him, singing "I'm Not Gonna Write You a Love Song" and laughing at his stony expression. He's had enough of this amorous holiday to last a lifetime, and it's not even noon.

 

His first lecture of the morning is trying, with a frustrating portion of the class not doing anything besides staring lustily at Derek and halfheartedly scrawling notes. Despite his curt warnings to pay attention, they don't put much effort into looking like they're not undressing Derek with their eyes. A good handful of the ballsier students even hang back afterwards to ask him out, which he says no to collectively, or give him Valentines, which he refuses to take. 

One student in his third-year class--a lean brunet with short, soft-looking hair and velvety brown eyes with more mirth in them than Derek would ever know what to do with--draws his focus. He openly stares at Derek, but it doesn't feel like leering. Mid-sentence, their eyes meet as Derek explains the definition on the board, and the boy--can Derek call him a boy when he has a body like that?--smiles at him in a cheerful, casual sort of way. His hands are large and sure while they fiddle expertly with the pencil in his fingers, attracting Derek's gaze even as he tells himself to look away.

He leans back in his seat and just looks at Derek, head to toe and back up. His eyes are appreciative, obviously, but there's an ease to how he watches Derek that seems less sexual and more... inquisitive, like he's physically mapping Derek and just wants all the time in the world to figure him out. Derek's tongue tangles in his mouth, and he falters over what he's saying and turns away to the projector screen. He recovers quickly, though, paves over the mistake without stopping and just soldiers on, and purposely doesn't look that way for the rest of the lecture. 

Contrary to what he thought, the guy doesn't stay behind once class ends to ask Derek out--which is good, Derek supposes, since he has no idea whether he would be able to turn him away with the same voracity as every other student that hits on him. He doesn't even know if he could tell that face, those searching brown eyes that he's not interested.

The ones that do linger to ask him out all seem to have incorrectly assumed that his momentary splash of weakness from the look he shared with that student--he was not ruffled, or vulnerable, or _anything;_ it was a single fraction of an _instant_ of emotional deficiency, _end of story_ \--somehow translates into "come at me, you horny little scholars, with all the tact and delicacy of a provoked tiger".

The remainder of his morning goes about that well. 

He doesn't want to talk about it. 

Derek waits in line at the cafeteria for his usual turkey BLT with holiday-based aggression festering somewhere just under the surface of his skin. It's a testament to his strength of will, he notes with a rueful little smirk, that he makes it through each year unscathed and without a criminal record. Or he has a growing tolerance for bullshit. But with people like the couple behind him, wrapped around each other like octopi and doing their best impressions of orally-fixated Hoovers, it's not as if the alternative isn't still tempting. Consequences be damned. 

Curiosity gets the better of him when Derek hears the person in front of him mumbling under his breath. He can't make out anything he says since the cafeteria ambience is too loud and the man's voice too quiet but, while he's curious, Derek's not about to move closer just to eavesdrop on a guy who talks to himself. His phone vibrates in his pocket, anyway, and prevents him from further stalking his queue predecessor. 

It's Laura. He's heavily inclined to ignore it. "Hello."

"Wow, how predictable. You're grumpy on Valentine's Day," his older sister snorts in his ear. "It is supposed to be a good day, you know, Der. Something to get the blood pumping and your energy going!" she exclaims with false excitement. She snorts again when he simply grunts in reply. "Hey, d'you think you could make a marriage pact with another hot but terminal bachelor? Like, advertise in the classifieds or something. _Derek Hale, twenty-six, looks like an underwear model and pulls off facial hair really well, likes black t-shirts and Jaegerbombs, and enjoys long cuddle sessions and consuming the hearts of virgins to stay young forever._ How's that sound? I think I nailed it."

"The hell did I do to deserve hearing your voice today?" Derek gripes, attracting the gaze of the man in front of him. As he turns Derek recognizes him as the young man from his lecture that morning. The man surreptitiously--what Derek thinks is supposed to be surreptitious, anyway--glances over his shoulder at the disruption behind him, and his lips curve when he sees Derek. He's got enough moles and freckles that it makes Derek wonder if he's a walking connect-the-dot picture, and a sinful-looking mouth that, now that he's within striking distance, affects him far too much to be healthy. The guy wiggles his fingers at Derek in a lazy excuse for a wave--it is not adorable in the slightest, and Derek's still trying to find a word to convey how much he wants to hate the fact that he doesn't hate this guy, when he turns and faces forward again. 

"Well, baby brother, I decided to make your day that much nicer by gracing you with my auditory socializing." He waits, not even bothering to point out anymore that he is the thirdborn of eight children, which is a far cry from being the "baby", and after a short pause Laura confesses, "I figured I'd call and make sure you haven't committed any felonies. It's a service to Mom, really, since she's going to call you if I don't talk you off the homicidal ledge."

Derek sighs. "No murder, I promise," he grits out. "Not even a little. Happy?" He watches the guy in front of him lift a hand to his face, and at first Derek thinks he must be horrified, some degree of aghast at what he's overhearing. But then he sees his shoulders shaking beneath his plaid shirt and Derek realizes he's laughing. The people behind him, however, have separated their suctioned faces long enough for both of them to look properly mortified. _Yeah, this conversation should probably be had in private,_ he thinks laconically.

"Oh, I'm just ecstatic," Laura muses. "Have you met anyone not attached to a syllabus lately, like since the semester started over a month ago? Don't answer that," she says in a disgusted tone, before Derek even opens his mouth. "I know the answer, and it's pitiful. You are pitiful." She pauses again. "I still haven't forgiven you for waffling and bailing on New Year's Eve, you know. So you should come out one of these nights with me and Erica. We'll find you a bitter old grouch of a friend to grow old with, at least."

"Goodbye, Laura," Derek says pointedly, hanging up. Not a minute later it buzzes again, this time with a text.

_It wouldn't kill you to try and be civil today,_ it reads. It's from his oldest brother, Lucas.

_No, that may actually kill me,_ Derek texts back, then adds, _And Laura can go to hell._

Lucas sends back a solitary _LOL_ and Derek pockets his phone as the line moves. The guy in front of him doesn't look at him again, and Derek tells himself he doesn't care as he watches him walk away.

Back in his office, sandwich halfway to his mouth, his mother calls. Derek groans loudly as he looks down at the screen. What has he done to deserve this kind of emotional battery? His nosiest sister and now his mother calling him, today of all days? Well, of course they'd call him today. He's made it no secret that his opinion of February fourteenth is at a permanent all-time low. Laura, as usual, didn't have anything useful to say, and it's not like his mother's going to have much to say either. All she'll tell him is she wants him to be happy no matter what, but wouldn't he like to come home and visit for a couple days, because oh, she'd love to see him, and the Jones' son Austin is home for the week and don't you remember how handsome he is, and he's doing his residency in town, dear, isn't that nice?

No matter how completely infuriating and frustrating she is, his mom manages to make Derek feel simultaneously like he's her star child for being able to live contently on his own, and like he's somehow disappointed her by not being seriously involved with someone by now. She could write an encyclopedia on shame-inducing techniques and methods of information extraction. But, it's his mom. He has to answer it. "Hi, Mom," Derek answers in a genuine but completely failed attempt at levity. 

"Sweetheart, how are you?" Talia Hale asks, and, yeah, her tone is painfully guilt-tripping. He may have been dodging her calls a bit leading up to this particular date.

"I'm, um--yeah, I'm okay," he gets out. "Working a lot."

"More like always," Isaac, walking past the door to his office, says on his way by. Derek sends him a dark scowl but Isaac just sticks his tongue out and keeps walking. 

His mother is silent for a long moment. "It's funny," she begins, and Derek is very certain the next thing she says will be nowhere near the realm of funny. "I'm sure that I had a son who actually loved his parents enough to tell them when he's seeing someone."

"I'm not," he says instantly, defensive and bristling. "Seeing anybody. Who the hell told you that?"

"Derek," Talia scolds, "you know you don't have to hide it. Laura explained everything. You have a new guy and you don't want to scare him with how much you like him in such a short time. Perfectly understandable." She pauses. Derek's stomach does a nosedive into his shoes. "However, he's coming over for dinner next weekend." 

Pure astonishment prevents him from responding, even to the "Have a good day, dear" followed by a click as his mother hangs up. His brain slowly catches itself up, reprocesses everything, and computes how much shit he is now mired in. 

Indignation and bad temper roll off of him like noxious fumes as he texts every sibling with an accusatory statement, questioning Laura's incompetence to keep anything to herself and Lucas' refusal to stop her when she stirs shit up. He gets a handful of responses back--May calls him a few colourful names for waking her up, Jason replies with a meme that Derek is ninety-nine percent sure is completely irrelevant, and Cora just sends him four middle finger emojis--which tell him that Laura worked alone. 

She picks up on the third ring. "Listen," she starts.

He doesn't let her finish. "Laura, are you actually braindead?" Derek explodes. "Why did you do this? What--what _possible_ goal is achieved by this? Mom now thinks I have a boyfriend that I'm ass over teakettle for and I can't even convince her I'm not lying because you told her I've been hiding it. Do you want me to commit sororicide?" 

"Okay, you are way too alone if you've been reading enough to know what the word for 'killing my sister' is," Laura snaps. "And no, I thought you could use a push, you toadstool. Looks like you're getting a boyfriend, little brother. Find one quick and then Mom won't feel betrayed when you don't bring anyone to dinner."

"I would check my food for poison for the next while if I were you," Derek hisses at her, then hangs up. He pockets his phone and puts his head in his hands, groaning piteously. How the hell is he supposed to find someone he doesn't hate in record time, especially since he's had trouble finding individuals he doesn't hate his whole life?

Someone knocks on his open door, barely making him glance up. "What," he snarls, then stills. The short-haired brunet from his lecture and the lunch line with all the distracting moles is in his doorway, looking a bit like he's ready to run in the other direction. Or laugh uncontrollably. 

"I know it's really not your day, Mr. Hale," the guy says, half-smiling, "but Samara needs these looked over by Henry ASAP." He waves the sheaf of papers in his hand.

Derek glowers. "Who the hell is Samara?" he starts with. Then, "And why are you referring to Dr. Leski by his first name?" He pauses, and--not without acridity--adds, "For that matter, who are you?" 

Holding up his index finger, the man replies, "Samara is Dr. Pilantis." He lifts a second finger. "Because Henry and I are tight." Third and final finger, accompanied by a subtly cocky grin. "I'm Stiles." 

Derek is sure he's not this unfortunate, to have this mouthy, interruptive student--with a nickname (Derek really hopes it's a nickname) so odd it has to be accompanied by a good story, at least (not that Derek wants to hear it)--come into his office and bother him with his... _everything_ when all he needs is peace and quiet to sort out his own dilemmas. Narrowing his eyes, he grabs his phone and sends a text to Dr. Leski about his messenger's package.

Dr. Leski responds almost immediately. _Omw back now, busy aft ahead. Proofread? :)_ Derek ignores the added smiley face as if it wasn't there. 

"Give them here," Derek says brusquely, looking at Stiles.

His eyebrows shoot up. He takes a couple steps into the room, but makes no move to actually approach Derek. "Not to burst your churlish little bubble, but your name isn't Henry. And these," he lifts the papers in emphasis, "happen to be for a guy named Henry." 

"A guy named Dr. Henry Leski just told me to proofread those," Derek says harshly, with obvious impatience. He holds out his hand. 

"Dude, I know you're his assistant and all," Stiles says, leaning back against Derek's lone filing cabinet and giving the avalanche of teddy bear/heart paraphernalia in the corner an odd look, "and you're doing a fantastic job. Really killing it. But I can't just hand these to whoever." His lips are just slightly curved when he glances at Derek, baring the most infinitesimal smile. He turns and examines the cork board on the wall to his right, littered with news letters and flyers advertising campus events. Derek's never gone to any of them, but he gets the flyers and pins them up, regardless. 

Already a headache threatens, right at Derek's temples, as Stiles takes a few steps towards him with that thoroughly amused expression. He resists the urge to simply growl at Stiles until he leaves. "Yes, I am one of Dr. Leski's assistants. Which is why I'm working directly outside his office, asking for papers that someone clearly doesn't want to let go of."

Stiles' smile widens to a full-on grin. "Maybe it's your scintillating company that keeps me here, Mr. Hale. No one really snarls like you do."

When Derek's eyebrows lower significantly--one of his scarier moves according to his youngest sister Addie--Stiles doesn't even react, besides biting his lip as he continues to smile. Derek says grumpily, "Give me the papers and leave, please." 

"Manners, all of a sudden," Stiles muses. With leisure he walks across the rug in front of Derek's desk, fluidly moving around the chair there. Derek tries his best not to let his vexation be fanned by the invasive but unhurried way that Stiles wanders and interacts with _literally every single thing_ on his desk. He fidgets with the stapler, runs two fingers across Derek's closed laptop, touches each pen in the cup near the corner. Nothing is safe from Stiles' meandering but meticulous hands. He lifts his head and looks at Derek. "Trying politeness where callousness failed?" When Derek doesn't acknowledge the statement, his lips twitch and he moves back to the Valentine's Day corner of rejection, toeing a small pink bear hugging a little heart to its chest that's fallen from the mountain of stuff. "With a disposition like that, what does Henry do with you?" he teases.

Before Derek can respond Dr. Leski appears in the doorway, coat over his arm and a coffee in hand. He peers imploringly at Derek, who looks curious at his early return. "Hey, lunch with my ex-wife was a bust. She apparently won't eat in a university cafeteria. _Too dirty._ " He rolls his eyes. "Figures. Where are you with that packet from Pilantis' office?" 

Stiles turns and grins, snagging Dr. Leski's attention. Leski smiles brightly. "Stiles! You're certainly away from your neck of the woods. How's Samara? Still chewing out first-years over proper grammar?"

"Her true calling ought to have been literature," Stiles admits. "Whoever decided she needed to be a biologist was way off base." He waves the papers at Dr. Leski. "I'm out of my woods' neck to bring you, or your ornery assistant, these."

_Ornery,_ Derek thinks hotly, and scoffs. He can be perfectly amiable when he wants to be, even charming. The day he lets this smiling chatterbox of an undergrad (he smiles so readily, just like that, and it's so irritatingly attractive that Derek can't decide if he wants to lick it off his face, push him down a small flight of stairs or flee the country just to avoid temptation) call him ornery and callous is going to be a cold day in Hell. He stands abruptly and strides to Stiles, wrenching the papers out of his hands. 

"I believe you can find your own way out," he says waspishly, with finality. He bites down on the impulse to immediately take it back, to imply more graciously that Stiles leave, because his temper just doesn't allow that kind of pussyfooting when he can growl and induce roughly the same outcome. 

Stiles studies him for a long moment before he chuckles, full lips quirked with begrudged humour. Like Derek being homicidally mad at his carelessly phrased but quite true statement isn't anything to bat an eyelash at. "Right. Be seeing you, Henry." He exits Derek's office and walks back the way he came.

Dr. Leski gives Derek a peculiar look. "I'm normally one to overlook your... attitudes, especially today, but I wonder what on Earth Stiles did to deserve that kind of dismissal?"

"He called me callous, and churlish," Derek grunts, moving to sit behind his desk again with the papers in hand.

The answer is logical to him, so Derek is surprised when Dr. Leski lets out a loud peal of laughter. "Yes, I'm sure he did," he agrees. "With how I imagine you greeted him, that was probably deserved."

Sifting through the pages in his hands Derek ignores that comment and says, "I'll get these proofread and on your desk in a couple hours."

Dr. Leski smirks. "You do that." He exits Derek's office, walking down the short hall to his own.

With Dr. Leski gone, Derek sighs, rubbing at his forehead in a feeble attempt to subdue his headache. Stiles is a perfect example of why Derek doesn't do people. He'll be lucky to never see him again.

 

Derek is not lucky. The next day, after getting his turkey BLT and coming back to his empty, quiet office, he's interrupted by Stiles appearing in his doorway. Stiles, who he has no classes with on Tuesdays--therefore Derek should have nothing to do with him today.

First, he walks in without so much as a _how do you do_ and pulls up the chair on the opposite side of Derek's desk. Then from his backpack he pulls out a small bag and starts removing foodstuffs from it.

Derek is deathly still, observing him and his spreading debris with abhorrent fascination. "What the hell are you doing?" he asks bluntly.

Stiles looks up at him with a "who brought the dumbass" kind of look. "Well, this is me sitting, and about to be eating," Stiles says. Slowly, as if Derek might have trouble keeping up.

"Yes, I can see that you're invading my office space with your lunch," Derek snaps tersely. "What I'm asking is, why?"

_"Dude,"_ Stiles says, and he sounds strangely intense as he stares Derek down, "you are turning into a chem hermit and I will not stand for it." He gestures with his fork in hand, first levelling the tines towards Derek, then aimlessly motioning around in general. "We already have Dr. Erikson stinking up the labs with his skulking and his counterproductive mopey-ness. The absolute last thing we need is another heartthrob to gloom the place over when the next generation of nerds takes over the faculty."

Derek blinks, absorbing the word vomit. It's several moments before he speaks. "So this is you trying to befriend me?" he guesses.

Stiles points at him approvingly with his fork. "Give that man a cigar," he says in a terrible Mid-Atlantic accent. Speaking normally again, he adds, "Let me know if you've got any hangups about some of the shit that likes to fall out of my face. I can be unwittingly offensive sometimes, so says my father. And my best friend. My mouth, it likes to run away and leave me and my brain far, far behind."

"Your very presence offends me," Derek grouses, and--Christ, now he's staring at Stiles' mouth. He unwraps his sandwich with a cold glare across his desk.

Stiles grins, entirely unaffected by his rancour. "That, I can do nothing about."

"You could leave," Derek suggests, glancing pointedly at the open door. "I'm sure there's someone less ornery you can waste your time with." 

"Did I hit a nerve?" Stiles asks. He's smirking as he takes a bite and chews. "Does he truly have feelings somewhere under that beautifully stubbled, darkly handsome face? Does a heart beat beneath that perfectly chiseled chest?"

Derek grimaces. He'd probably be red in the face by now if Stiles' words weren't dripping with sarcasm. "Please stop."

"From the way it looks in here," Stiles says, gesturing around to the few flowers in his office and then to the heap of discarded gifts in the corner, "what with Valentine's Day Reject Mountain over there, it seems like you should be accustomed to flattery. It also makes me glad I didn't get you anything, because, wow. Is that ever a waste of money. That's, like, a whole bath tub of lost revenue, in the form of sweat shop toys and semen-scented candles." 

_Semen-scented candles?_ Derek boggles at him, still trying to parse Stiles' random associations and tangents. _How is a bath tub a unit of volumetric measurement?_ "I'm accustomed," Derek agrees bitterly, once he's grasped the bulk of what was said, "but it is not joyously so."

Stiles nods and stabs another forkful of mac and cheese from his tupperware container. "Sadly I can't relate, being an average bear in the looks category. I'm sure you go through enough shit on days like yesterday, though."

Surprisingly, Derek detects no derision in the words. Stiles is actually trying to empathize with him. "Valentine's Day is a blast," Derek says woodenly.

Stiles tips his head back, exposing his long neck, and laughs. Derek's eyes trail the beauty marks covering the skin there, then he scowls when he catches himself and looks away. "I almost didn't think you could joke," Stiles says.

"I may have strained something with that one," Derek grumbles. Stiles laughs again and he's irritated instantly, because he doesn't find the noise irritating _at all._

Derek falls silent, turning his attention to his partially written on notepad where he's staggering through his newest self-inflicted torture. Scratched out equations, numerical scribbles and various doodles already cover half the page. He writes down a couple absent-minded things as he thinks it over, reworks them a few times. He strikes out more than he leaves alone, and draws a rearing horse in the margins.

After a prolonged period of time, Derek feels eyes on him. He glances up to see Stiles watching him raptly. "Can I help you?" Derek asks, glaring, because that's safer than vaulting over his desk and mounting Stiles where he sits.

"Hmm," Stiles hums. The sound is borderline pornographic, and he looks like he knows it, too. He sips from his juice box and wiggles his eyebrows at Derek, sucking obscenely on the straw and using much more tongue than necessary. "Just admiring the view."

Amazingly Derek feels his face colour. Stiles' flirtation manages to actually fluster him, even though it should be annoying and ineffective in its stupidity. He's finding himself unfathomably charmed that Stiles seems to enjoy his presence, drawn in by dimpled cheeks and a pert mouth.

Stiles stares at him. The left corner of his mouth pulls up into a grin a second before the right side follows suit. He looks like someone just handed him the moon. "Oh my god, you're fucking _adorable._ "

"Get the hell out," he growls, but there's not as much heat behind it as he wants there to be. He looks down at his notes again, hands clenching.

In a singular motion Stiles is on his feet, checking his watch, and he makes a small noise of surprise. He starts packing his stuff back into his bag. "Good call, actually, big guy. Class starts soon." He glances at Derek, smiling that easy smile. "Same time tomorrow?"

"No," Derek intones grumpily. He clearly leaves no room for argument. 

"Great, see you then," Stiles says, throwing his bag over his shoulder and waving on his way out the door.

Derek watches him go. Confusion promotes itself to the forefront of his thoughts, confusion about why he doesn't hate the idea of seeing Stiles again. It's not as if the guy isn't annoying, because he is. Derek's surprised he managed to sit down or shut up at all. He's got no boundaries, he's obnoxious and chatty, he teases Derek relentlessly, and he's one of his students. Not to mention, the way that he curves his mouth when he thinks something's funny--Derek, apparently, is often funny--has to be illegal somewhere. Why is he allowing this?

He's been pondering it for all of three seconds before his mind provides the visual of Stiles' head thrown back in laughter, his throat bared and scattered with moles until they disappear under his collar. His smiling face, dimpling around his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes when he laughs, lips broken into a wide, toothy grin. His nimble fingers fiddling with his fork.

_I seriously like him,_ Derek thinks, and then it's real and he can't not think about it anymore, and he can't pretend that Stiles isn't a recurring thought in his mind because now he's admitted it to himself, and all the ignorance in the world isn't going to help him now.

Derek doesn't panic, but he's not very calm. He may, in a moment of misplaced composure, reduce a bouquet into nothing but a pile of violently dismantled roses in the bottom of his trash can. The last thing he needs right now is an object of affection, someone to industriously distract him from his life and responsibilities. And Stiles is _distracting._ He made Derek blush, which is ridiculous and unacceptable.

His phone beeps with the sound of an incoming text. With a muffled groan he picks it up to read it.

_Found a victim yet for dinner next weekend?_ Laura sends.

And that... that gives Derek a thought. Stiles is irritating (in the way that he's not irritating at all but probably should be, and Derek is irritated by this) but he's also easily able to be what Derek suddenly and desperately needs--a date. If he believed in such things, he would say it's either impeccable cosmic timing, fate, or pure dumb luck that he and Stiles interacted yesterday--not just once, either, but three separate times. He had lamented over not having anyone he could tolerate long enough to bring to his parents' place, and here's one practically dropped into his lap.

Assuming that all goes well, Stiles could be a stand-in boyfriend for the dinner. But would he want to keep Stiles around after? Derek pales just thinking about exposing an acquaintance and possible actual friend, one that he doesn't want to perpetually alienate, to his enormous family all at once. But he thinks if anyone could put up with Uncle Peter's loaded glances, May's foul mouth and fouler humour, Lucas' triplets abusing their infantile right to pester the shit out of anyone they choose, and Robin, Jason and Addie tag-teaming him in true Hale interrogation fashion, it would be Stiles. 

Derek would like to think that he just has great taste in men, but realistically it's probably more like his personality--quiet, (supposedly) brooding with social issues and little to say in the first place--is a spot of darkness in the light for someone like Stiles, who is almost the exact opposite. Similarly Derek finds himself attracted to Stiles' energetic character, his inexplicable uniqueness. He has an _entire arsenal_ of smiles, which is completely absurd and Derek is beyond pissed that his first thought is how fucking cute that is.

In a worst case scenario, Stiles would figure out how cantankerous Derek is and decide he's not worth the effort after all. He'd leave, and Derek would just explain to his family that they broke up. No harm done, right?

He scoffs to himself as he types his reply to his sister, which is a brief and acrimonious _Fuck you, Laura,_ because who is he kidding? Derek is one Stiles Smile™ away from worshipping the ground he walks on.

When Isaac finds him there later, head in his hands and looking appropriately pathetic, he wordlessly walks to the corner overflowing with romantic crap and pelts Derek's bowed head with plushes from Valentine's Day Reject Mountain from across the room. Derek thumps his forehead onto his desk and tries to pinpoint the exact moment his life turned into a bad sitcom. 

 

In lecture the next day, Stiles stares. Every time Derek glances up to check the crowd of students, he sees Stiles watching him. He should be, obviously--Derek is instructing him. But it's different. He doesn't stutter or drop anything this time, or show any sign outwardly that he's affected. Still, he feels those eyes all over him for the whole hour and after class it takes over ten minutes for the back of his neck to stop tingling. He can't decide if he's disappointed or relieved when Stiles doesn't stay behind to see him.

He shows up for lunch again, though. "Hey, you," he says in greeting as he walks right in, sits down and starts unpacking his food. Today he's brought spaghetti and a spinach salad, all in tupperware.

"Um, hi," Derek grumbles. Stiles is wearing a long-sleeved shirt with a wide neckline, sufficiently displaying his throat and collarbones in a way that makes Derek's teeth ache with the need to bite and mark him up. He watches Stiles until he's too wary of being caught, and instead jabs at his keyboard with the kind of brutish prejudice that implies it's personally done something unforgivable to him. 

It's silent for a few minutes before either of them speak again. Stiles eyes him over their food. "So, not that I'm not loving the sexy aura of mystery and suspense you have going on," he begins, and Derek looks up with a shade more bewilderment than embarrassment, "but could you actually tell me your first name? It's kind of silly having to refer to you as Mr. Hale all the time. I'm ingenuous enough to admit it makes me feel like there's an imbalance between us, which just seems stupid since you're close to my age."

Derek frowns. "I didn't tell you my name?" To be honest he's not surprised that he didn't care enough to introduce himself, or to remember that he had yet to do so until it was pointed out that he hadn't. His mother, if she was there, would have smacked him for being so rude.

Stiles chews the end of his fork, chuckling around the utensil. "Nope, I'm still running off of "Mr. Hale, Henry's Hot as Sin Assistant". Try saying _that_ five times fast."

Derek half-smothers a laugh, then ends up coughing when he tries to stop laughing altogether. "Derek," he chokes out. "My name is Derek."

"Huh." Stiles' lips widen in a gorgeous smile, one that clenches Derek's stomach with a sudden flourish of anxious excitement. "That suits you. I was guessing things like Logan and Bruce."

"Let's stick with Derek," Derek muses, biting into his sandwich. 

Stiles waits until he's finished chewing before stating, "So, I hear, and have observed firsthand, that you are an absolute menace."

Derek raises his eyebrows, his expression expectant. "And?"

"Well, I was thinking you'd contradict me," Stiles says with amusement.

"Well, I won't," Derek says, and shrugs when Stiles laughs softly. "I don't like people. And people often love to fawn over me, therefore making my life that much harder. So, I developed a genius plan. I became an asshole."

Stiles laughs again, harder this time. "Truly, it's genius," he concurs. "I bet that works like a charm."

"Not as well as it should," Derek retorts, gesturing to Stiles.

"Yes, but you forget that I am in no way an ordinary person," Stiles tells him. "I can't believe you haven't said anything to me about my papers and assignments yet. I'm an enigma of sorts, or so they tell me in the bio labs. Highly sought after intelligence combined with rapier wit, a _severe_ case of unfiltered motor mouth and a sheriff's son upbringing. Well, that's more of an autobiographical description. My study partner Lydia would disagree with almost all of that, and say my life as a cop's kid had no effect whatsoever on my rearing beyond eliminating any normal, healthy fear I may have had for the authorities. Though, I haven't gotten into that much shit, despite that. I mean, everyone has done something, right?" 

Derek thinks this may be a point where he's expected to supply some input, but Stiles just _keeps talking._ "Practically a milestone to get into trouble one way or another. Oh man, this one time with my buddy Scott, we were hiking up near Beacon Point, and we were eighteen, so of course we had a bottle of whiskey in our packs, and we were under the foolhardy impression that drinking while halfway up a mountain rife with wild predators was somehow a good idea. So he and I were drinking, and I mean _drinking,_ like no glasses, no soda, just a bottle apiece and a lot of silence to fill, which, ha." Here Stiles pauses to run quick hands through his hair, smoothing them back through his dark locks and resting his palms against the sides of his neck with a slightly sheepish grin. "For me that's pretty much a no-brainer, literally. You could probably extract my brain from my skull and my mouth would keep going. Anyway, so while we were in the middle of getting absolutely blitzed this group of guys comes up from the camp site area down the mountain to the west a bit, and asks to drink with us. And obviously, Scott and me are like, "Whoa, bro, we don't even know you" and they're all, "We went to school together our whole lives", and we totally had, we knew all of their names but these guys were always dicks so the last thing on our minds was "sharing is caring", y'know?" 

Again Stiles has posed a possibly rhetorical question that Derek isn't sure if he should even attempt to answer, so he grits his teeth against the monstrous developing headache that throbs a little harder behind his eyes with each new word and stays silent. It's the right decision, because Stiles is gathering speed. "So they start badgering us about being good guys and letting them join in, which Scott and I knew--well, maybe just me, Scott's what I like to call the thickest tree in the forest--I knew it was bullshit, because the second we let them drink with us it would all be gone. There was like six of them, and we had already made good dents in our bottles, so the rest of the booze would be easily used up by getting the six of them drunk with us. That was crazy amounts of not happening," Stiles informs him promptly, "so I basically told them to fly a kite and the one guy, well, he wasn't exactly with the general concept of fucking off and buying their own liquor, so he--"

Derek's head pounds aggressively and he slams his hand palm-down onto the desk top, startling Stiles into an abrupt silence. "Stiles, do you ever fucking shut up?" he snarls, because Stiles _still_ hasn't finished talking and the story's longevity is going to be comparable to an epic saga, he just knows it. 

For a brief instant Stiles' shocked face becomes crestfallen before he quickly wipes it away, to be replaced with a thin-lipped, chagrined almost-smile, nothing even close to the smiles Derek's already so used to seeing on him. It's self-deprecating, hopeless and a little angry, like he was just waiting for the moment when Derek would put his foot down and expunge his endless tirade of words. 

"Sometimes," Stiles says, to unnecessarily answer his rhetorical question. His voice is hushed and tense and Derek hates it, hates himself, hates that his first instinct is to snap at people when all they've done is annoy him in some way, which is absolutely not a challenging thing to do. He pretends not to care, and obstinately looks down at his notepad instead of confronting the consequences of his fiery temper. He sees Stiles nod to himself, his face falling into a neutral mask as he begins eating in silence.

Derek doesn't do worrying. He's never been one to linger over a choice or regret something he's done, because he's never cared enough about hurting anyone's feelings beyond his family, all of whom he's never upset with enough to be a problem, unless Laura or Jason incite him into a low state of madness (on purpose, but that's kind of what siblings are for). But looking at Stiles, at the way he's now so reserved, so damn quiet, Derek worries. Did he actually hurt his feelings? Stiles comes across as immune, and Derek had defaulted to foolishly thinking that he was emotionally impenetrable because of his carefree attitude. When he's faced with Derek's moods, all Stiles has needed are some easygoing words and the practiced but simple way he coaxes a word or two out of Derek in return. It's comical, that Stiles' demeanour would lift him up even as his puts Stiles down.

Neither of them speak as they both finish their lunches. Derek wrestles with himself as he chews, trying to force himself to apologize before the moment ends and the damage is permanent, but time passes too quickly for him, because when he looks up Stiles has finished eating much faster than usual. He's already putting things back in his bag when Derek blurts out, "I'm sorry."

Stiles goes still, then slowly continues what he was doing. Once he packs his empty containers away, he stands and looks down at Derek. "Do you want me to come back tomorrow?" Stiles asks him without inflection. His expression is careful, unsmiling, and so guarded that Derek feels like he's looking at a stranger on the sidewalk. 

Derek hesitates, slightly surprised at the question. He thinks before he answers, because his typical answer of "No", considering how rude he just was, would probably send Stiles away for real. As it is, he's the closest chance Derek has of bringing someone to his parents'. 

"Uh, companion-wise, you're... not the worst," is what Derek goes with, but right after he says it, it doesn't feel like enough.

Stiles studies him for a long moment, making Derek increasingly uncomfortable when he still doesn't smile. "Okay," he finally says, then leaves. 

At a loss, Derek sits there and watches the empty doorframe. Does that mean he is coming back, or he isn't? He sits staring so long that when Boyd walks past the door, he stops and waves his hand to get Derek's attention.

"Where'd you go?" Boyd chuckles. "You're not usually a space case."

Derek shrugs it off, muttering something about not having had enough coffee yet. When Boyd's gone, he sighs. _If Stiles doesn't come back, what am I going to do?_

 

In lecture two days later, Derek tries his hardest to catch Stiles' eye, to discern if he's still mad at him for being a self-proclaimed asshole. Stiles doesn't look up from his work at all, taking notes by ear or copying the person next to him. Derek looks at him, though, often enough that his other students are giving him weird looks. He doesn't see Stiles smile once. After lecture he hopes Stiles will hang back and talk to him, but he's one of the first to pack up and leave. 

Resigned to his fate--dateless for his family's dinner and timelessly guilty over unleashing his temper on someone he actually happens to like, one time too many--Derek is forlornly waiting for his sandwich to be made when a muscular student with shoulder-length brown hair comes up to him.

"Are you Hale, Dr. Leski's assistant?" he asks.

"Yes?" Derek grunts. "What do you want?"

The guy frowns. "Honestly, I want to punch you in the face, but considering Stiles doesn't even know I'm talking to you, then that's probably better that I don't. He would question a black eye."

A friend of Stiles', then. "I think anyone would question facial bruising," Derek says. "Why do you want to punch me again? And who are you?" What _is_ it with people just coming up to him lately?

"I'm Scott, resident best friend." The guy, Scott, glowers at Derek as he pushes back the hair in his eyes. "I want to punch you because Stiles was just trying to be nice to your grouchy ass and you decided to shit all over that."

"He was well aware of my behaviour before he tried to talk to me," Derek says flatly, turning back to the lunch line. "It's nobody's fault." And he'll keep telling himself that.

Scott eyes him nastily and steps in front of him, refusing to be ignored. "Right. He did know how you acted. That's kind of why he wanted to be your friend."

Derek doesn't visibly respond to that, but it's a thought that sends a new spear of guilt lancing through his chest. "Will that be all?" he asks sharply, fed up. A warning.

"Stiles deserves better." Scott shakes his head with a scoff and he walks away after glaring at him one last time.

And Derek... well, he doesn't even know how to begin to contradict that one.

 

It's Monday, a full miserable weekend later, and Derek could say he was pretty productive over the weekend, if "productive" is code for "I laid around in holey sweatpants for two days, thinking about how shitty a person I am and eating cupcake frosting right out of the container with a spoon". Derek is sitting at his kiosk at the front of the lecture hall after his second class, adjusting his stack of collected essays. As he does, a shadow falls over him. Derek waits a long moment and when it doesn't disappear he glances up distractedly, barely taking in the kid's sneakers. "Do you have a question?" he asks shortly.

"Several," his interruption says, and Derek's head snaps up. It's Stiles, his smile tentative and pinched, but at least it's a smile.

Derek swallows. "Such as?" He slowly sets down the papers he's holding, flattening his palms on the desk. His hands aren't shaking. They're not.

Stiles shrugs, looking away for a second before meeting Derek's eyes. "Well, not so much questions as various statements. Sorry about Scott, first of all," Stiles huffs out. "He means well, but he's kind of like a dog. Overprotective and lovable, when he's not being an irritating little shitfuck."

Derek barks out a helpless laugh. "No offense taken," he mutters. "I have my own share of irritating people in my life, ones that I'm related to and therefore frowned upon to get rid of."

With a jerky nod Stiles looks down, avidly studying his hands. "I wanted to apologize for not coming back for lunch and kind of, well, actually really ignoring you on Friday," Stiles rushes out. Then he adds a little thoughtfully, "I shouldn't apologize, actually. I did nothing wrong, in comparison to you. Anyway, not the point. I mean, it's not like you missed me anyway, right? You're you. And I'm me."

Derek isn't sure what that's even supposed to mean. "Uh, well. I didn't miss the noise," he says truthfully, and Stiles laughs a little. "But... maybe I did miss the company." He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, wrangling a flare of nervousness and hastening to add, "And I'm really sorry. For what I said, and losing my temper."

Stiles' face breaks into an honest grin, which does all kinds of frivolous things to his heart rate. "Well, now you know you're never getting rid of me, right? I dig in like a tick."

A shrug seems more appropriate than the sudden urge Derek gets to lean forward and kiss that smile. "I can just use you to get my food for me, if you're that intent on sticking around."

"I can live with that," Stiles says easily. "See you at lunch, turkey BLT." He exits the lecture hall. Derek wonders how Stiles knows what he usually eats, but not enough to distract himself from watching Stiles on his way out.

He monotones through his last morning lecture with a modicum of interest, but he's counting the seconds on his wristwatch. At five minutes to, Derek takes pity on his harried-looking first-years and lets them go early.

On his way into his office he's waylaid by Erica, looking far too pleased for his comfort. "I hear through the faculty vine that you, my good sir, are crushing on an undergrad," she croons at him happily. "Is it that freckly, tall drink of water that keeps coming in here during your lunch hour?"

"Who the hell," he mutters to himself, mentally going through a list of colleagues who may have seen him looking hopelessly enamoured with Stiles. At Erica he growls, "How do you know about Stiles?"

Her grin becomes carnivorous, and immensely more frightening. "So it is Pilantis' protégée, huh? You would get a cute, smart and funny one. You gays make the pickings slim for me, just so you know."

"How is this happening? Who told you?" Derek demands. 

"No one told me directly," she scoffs dismissively. "It's just the gossip fodder for the moment. Everybody is in knots picturing you--burly, surly, and a bona fide loner--with one of your most outspoken students. Isaac likes the idea of Stiles blowing you in your chair, but personally? My favourite sexy school time fantasy is the two of you fucking ravenously on your desk."

Derek groans, rubbing his hands over his face wearily. The single last thing he needs is more attention concerning his love life. Unhelpfully, his imagination is enthusiastically running with the thought of having sex with Stiles in his office, and gathering momentum with each inappropriate hypothetical scenario. "Jesus, Erica. _Ravenously?_ Really?" 

Erica smirks, patting him on the shoulder. "Oh, it's alright, nobody will judge you, baby. He barely looks younger than you with a jawline like that. Plus, he's like a ray of sarcastic sunshine. Everybody loves him. Additional plus, he has an ass that I could bounce a quarter off of, and he is _so_ into you. It's impossible to talk to you on a good day, as I'm sure you're aware, but he met you on one of your worst days and he _still_ pursued you." She gives him a significant look, perfectly shaped eyebrows almost touching her blonde hairline. "You let this guy go and karma is going to make mincemeat out of your life. Or I will."

"You sound horrifically like my mother, and Laura," Derek gripes, swatting her hand away when she starts tugging on his earlobe. "Stop spending so much time with my family."

Erica just laughs uproariously, because she's totally unfazed by him and also _evil,_ and leaves his office. Stiles appears in the doorframe a moment later, looking amused as her laughter still carries to them from down the hall. 

"Something funny?" he asks Derek.

Derek sighs. "The entirety of my department and yours are convinced we're going to get married and have science babies together," he explains in a tepid growl.

"Ah, the rumour mill at work again? I suppose that had to happen eventually." Stiles moves to his spot on the other side of Derek's desk, unloading his lunch methodically and leaning across the desk to set a wrapped sandwich in front of Derek. "Boyd, Erica and Isaac usually see me every day on my way in here, so no hiding from them, anyway. On my end, Samara's not known for being tight-lipped, and I do confide in her sometimes. She's a great listener but a subpar secret keeper."

"Question," Derek states, and eyes him as he sits. When Stiles makes a _go ahead_ sort of noise, he continues, "How are you so close with Dr. Pilantis and Dr. Leski?"

Stiles' mouth twitches and he glances up through his lashes before he straightens with a slow preparatory inhale. "I guess I couldn't dodge that question forever," he muses. "Well, Samara used to be a friend and classmate of my mom's. She would play with me and give me stuff to colour with when my mom took me to class with her, back when my mom was in school and I was just a tyke. Samara has known me since I was a kid, and I grew up with her as like an honorary aunt. She got me into biology.

"As for me and Henry, we met on orientation day my freshman year when I ran right into him outside his class and spilled every single thing he was carrying to the ground. I apologized a lot and you know how I chatter--" at this, Derek pauses in unwrapping his sandwich and gives Stiles such a dry look that he has to force himself to stop giggling before he can continue speaking, "--so before long he was clued into my life story and for whatever reason, he was the person who I spent most of my time with that first year. Of course, we kept hanging out and having coffee and meals together since then, until he got pretty busy this semester with his sabbatical coming up. And then I had a lot more free lunch hours and a rather attractive yet grotesquely ill-mannered assistant to entertain."

"Lucky me," Derek grunts, but the corner of his mouth lifts. 

"Oh, you flatterer," Stiles demurs sweetly.

Something clicks in Derek's brain as he raises his sandwich to his mouth. "What did you confide in Dr. Pilantis that would fuel rumours?"

Stiles looks up from his lunch, clearly taken by surprise. "Uh," he says, then blushes scarlet. His beauty marks stand out even more against his flushed skin, and Derek _wants._ "I may have confessed how hot and ridiculously unattainable I thought Henry's lecture assistant was."

"Yes, I wonder how those rumours started," Derek chides, smirking minutely.

Stiles smiles and ducks his head. "What?" he murmurs defensively. "You are way too sexy, and so far I haven't managed to get you to ask me out. Both seem to ring true, don't you think?"

"You want me to ask you out," Derek says lethargically, somehow having difficulty with the simple words.

"Dude, _yes!"_ Stiles yelps, throwing up his hands. "I'm trying my hardest to beat out all your stupidly attractive postgrad friends in this freaking office, which is no small feat, let me tell you, since all of you are _so insanely hot._ Boyd is built like a brick shit house and Erica could more than likely eat me for breakfast and then pick her teeth clean with my femur, and that's not really inspiring a lot of self-confidence whenever I'm around you and I try to act like I'm desirable, and not like I'm overmedicated." 

Derek's eyebrows go up at the sudden spiel of words. Stiles is worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, and he's looking at Derek's hands instead of his face. "Now you wouldn't think that I would be bothered by it," he says, almost conversationally if not for the wobble in his voice. "Since I'm gay and I know that you're gay--because, okay, don't be mad, I'm sorry, I got Samara to ask Henry for me very subtly so he wouldn't know I was after his best TA like a total creep--and I've been drooling over you since _before Christmas,_ and I've already picked out where we should get married because I am-- _I am so weird._ Like, I've got my A game going on overdrive and I've been flirting for all I'm worth, and I still don't even know if it's working and if you're interested in whatever it is that I have going on. But what am I doing?" he appears to ask himself with a groan. "I'm a student, you're practically my professor. It's all just horrible in general."

"Your only argument is that you're my student?" Derek finds himself asking, to erase the lost look in those amber-speckled brown eyes. "Seems a bit flimsy to me."

Stiles studies him, finally looking him in the eye, and he must see something in Derek because he smiles indulgently and leans back in his chair. "Yeah, you have a point. After all, we can't be more than five, six years apart in age. Hardly scandalous. Both men, though."

Derek shrugs and hides his potential smile by taking a bite of his turkey BLT and chewing. "It's 2017, I'd like to believe people are more progressive than that."

"So says the guy who won't actually ask me out," Stiles jibes, laughing.

"If I ask you out I have to tell my mother," he says with a grimace. "More importantly, you have to come to dinner this weekend with my family. With my _whole family,_ " Derek adds emphatically, when Stiles doesn't look the least bit concerned. "It will be an ordeal, I assure you."

"I'm failing to see the downsides here."

"My family is psychotic, and copious," Derek admits, bordering on grim. "I have a total of seven siblings, one of which already has a family of his own and another expecting one soon. My mother is an absolute well-meaning monster, and my father and uncle are her instigators. They are all extremely invested in my romantic life, and they will all make our lives very difficult."

He watches Stiles stand and come around the desk to take his sandwich out of his hands and set it down on his notepad. Derek scowls, looking up at Stiles with a sarcastic yet scathing comment on his tongue, but the words get caught somewhere in his throat when Stiles plops himself sideways in Derek's lap. He bends and places a chaste kiss to Derek's brow, easing back and smiling. "Dug in like a tick, remember? You can't scare me off. Your family sounds like everything a family should be. If they don't annoy you, they're not doing it right."

Belatedly Derek notices that his mouth is hanging open and he shuts it with a _clack._ "I... guess," Derek falters, frowning. 

Stiles lifts his eyebrows. "Can we kiss, or will you have an aneurism?"

His voice is so amused that Derek chokes out a laugh, haltingly putting his hand on Stiles' thigh. "If I do, just keep going."

"And to think, I once assumed you couldn't even joke," Stiles says ruefully, laughing. It starts as a slow chuckle, but quickly escalates into helpless guffawing when Derek wiggles his eyebrows. Immediately he feels stupid afterwards, thinking he must have looked ridiculous (which was obviously the point, to make him laugh by looking ridiculous) but Stiles' laugh is melodic to listen to. After the initial twinge of discomfort he doesn't even care if he looked stupid, because he'd do a lot to hear that sound again. He watches the wide spread of Stiles' lips as they part to let the sound out, chin lifted towards the ceiling. Mesmerized, Derek holds his eyes when Stiles catches him looking, and the broad grin is replaced with a tender smile and mirthful, solicitous eyes. It's new, that look, and Derek won't--can't--stop staring.

The mole beside Stiles' mouth disappears into a dimple's crease, his countenance shifting into arrogance. His smirk highlights how pleased he is with Derek's speechlessness and--oh yeah, he definitely knows he's the cause. His hand squeezes Stiles' leg involuntarily at that look. Or maybe not so involuntarily, because when Stiles hums and leans forward to slip his hands around Derek's neck, he does it again. 

"I'm going to kiss you now," Stiles murmurs when he's a hair's breadth from his lips. He hangs there, waiting for something but in no apparent rush, if the way his fingers coast along Derek's jawline is any indication.

"Stiles," he sighs, "shut up." He presses a hand to the back of Stiles' head and brings his mouth down the extra inch to meet Derek's, _finally_. His lips are warm, soft and plush and a little chapped, and even when he's kissing, Stiles acts as though there are hundreds of thoughts racing through his mind. 

Derek holds him there, gently demanding fingertips pressing into his scalp, because while he knows Stiles isn't a flight risk--Stiles was pretty adamant about his intentions towards Derek--he is not stopping just so Stiles can start talking a mile a minute when they could be kissing. He runs the hand at Stiles' thigh up over his hip to grasp his waist, a little more firmly than he intended, and he presses contradictingly light kisses to Stiles' mouth. A low, content noise escapes Stiles; Derek feels it on his lips and he wants another one, louder and less contained and needier. The hand cradling Stiles' head slides down to cover the nape of his neck, and his thumb rubs a teasing circle there behind his ear. Derek's fingers clutch at his body in silent warning before he opens his mouth wider; the kiss is deeper, wetter and hungrier, and Derek crushes Stiles to his chest for one instant before slackening again.

Under his hands Stiles gradually melts and leans forward into Derek's chest like he just... fits there, has always fit there in Derek's embrace, like it's his place to be. Stiles loops his arms around his neck, keeping him close, and Derek melts a little (a lot) too.

As their lips realign Derek nibbles at Stiles' lower one, and he makes another noise--this one is high and surprised, and no less appealing. Stiles pulls back from him incrementally, a puff of air rushing over his lips, and Derek loosens his hands and lets him. He doesn't go far, though, and peers down at Derek. 

"Do you expect me to believe," Stiles begins, and Derek has a split second of panic-- _Stiles hates me, Stiles doesn't want me, I read everything wrong, oh fuck, oh god_ \--before he sees Stiles' mouth twitch and he relaxes, "that a person who avoids, nay, _runs expertly away from_ all things romantic, lovey-dovey and affectionate, is that good of a kisser? Just what game are you playing here, Hale?"

He can't help it--he laughs. Shaking his head Derek lets his hand on Stiles' waist drop lower, to cup around the incredibly tempting curve of his hip. "I never said I was celibate," Derek tells him with a bit of amusement. "Although, it kind of seems like it sometimes." Derek hears the unintentional fatigue in his own voice when he says it and frowns. Stiles is quiet, watching him with an openness that Derek is quickly associating with just him, and he knows Stiles is waiting to listen to him if he wants to keep going. 

He does, because for the first time he feels like he _can._ "Being how I am, my record with romance is what you'd expect," Derek says, as close to normal as he can manage, because he is determined not to dampen the mood. "I've dated minimally and nothing has ever worked out. I got a few normal endings and a few bad endings, and one very bad ending." Stiles looks like the need to ask about that particular detail is killing him internally, but he remains mute. "When I first got to university I did the young person thing and slept with a decent amount of people--and got very good at kissing, apparently--but there hasn't been anything meaningful in that whole time, which vexes my mother to no end. Not that I've felt much like I needed it, or wanted it. My mother and sisters were sure to... persuade me otherwise, though."

"Well, I imagine that's what overbearing family members are designed for," Stiles chuckles. He cards his fingers through Derek's hair, his chocolate caramel eyes roving over his face fondly. "I bet you were coerced into needing a date for this weekend family supper thing, too."

"My sister lied to my mom and told her I already had a boyfriend but was hiding it," Derek explains wryly. "Therein forcing me to either find someone to bring to a sudden dinner party, or out her scheming to our parents and get her in trouble. But if I did that, I'd also have to tell my mom that I wasn't really dating anyone and, well, you haven't seen heartbroken until you tell my mother that you're single."

Stiles snaps his fingers, his eyes lighting up with revelation. "Laura!" he says proudly. At Derek's look of startled confusion, Stiles admits without a shred of shame, "I was eavesdropping on you the whole time, in the lunch line. I remember your conversation on the phone. The person you talked to, you called her Laura, and you sounded just a _bit_ too mean to be talking to your mom. Though, with seven siblings, that doesn't mean it was that sister that finagled you."

That explains why he knew Derek's sandwich preference, anyway. "True, but it was Laura," Derek informs him, and Stiles grins. "You're really okay with just... jumping into this, meeting my parents--the full goddamn ensemble of my family this early? Because I can just tell Laura to shove it and tell Mom the truth. She will eventually weasel it out of me once she sees that I'm acting different, so she will know regardless. And probably soon."

"Ah, you're one of those people who can't lie to their parents," Stiles says, tongue-in-cheek. "Yeah, I don't know what that feels like. I could've gotten away with serial murder when I was growing up. Well, with my dad, anyway--which is funny because he's a sheriff now, but he was just a deputy back then. My mom, though, she could sniff out my lies like a bloodhound. Secret mom powers at work, I guess."

"You didn't actually answer my question," Derek notes, lifting an eyebrow. "Is it deflection or rambling?"

"Bits of both," Stiles muses, smiling crookedly as he levers himself off of Derek's lap and gets to his feet, leaning his hip against his desk instead. Derek feels that smile like a punch to his gut. "Short answer, no, I don't mind meeting the folks and all of your kin. Sounds like a total madhouse, but a fun madhouse." His features soften a little, and he purses his lips. "Longer answer? No, I don't mind. I want to meet them, all of them, because they clearly mean a hell of a lot to you. But I can't help wondering if I'm going to be like, a new boyfriend kind of guest or if I'm just acting as a dinner diversion and then you'll tell your family we "broke up" afterwards and we won't talk anymore."

Derek's mouth tightens, because that's almost exactly what he'd been planning to do in the beginning. There's no question whether he likes Stiles, but Derek likes his freedom, too.

Stiles is idiotic, and annoying, and a little bit like a verbal bulldozer. He overshares, he rambles, he digresses, and he's easily distracted. It's usually a toss-up whether he'll offhandedly say something strangely endearing or something pretty fucking strange, and sometimes with him it's hard to tell the difference anyway. He's (allegedly) a seasoned liar, even to his parents. He tends to let his mouth run away from him at the best and worst of times, and usually every time in between, too. He's a fan of needling Derek, making him talk and pushing him ever-so-slightly out of his shell one shove at a time, which Derek definitely didn't ask him to do. 

_I'm not going anywhere,_ he thinks, and as he does he knows that it's true. It's hilarious that Derek thought he'd have to contemplate his options. Stiles is looking down at him with big eyes, fingers picking jerkily at the edge of his sleeves. He's the most nervous Derek's ever seen him, so he reaches out and latches onto Stiles' wrist where it hangs at his side, and he talks.

"I don't know about you," he begins mildly, and Stiles is motionless beside him, "but being single? Significantly overrated." He strokes back and forth over Stiles' pulse, feels it jump against his thumb. "First of all, there's no readily available sex. You have to go hunting for it every time you want it. Huge waste of my time, and a travesty all on its own. Then there's the fact that almost everything you buy is shareable, and I heard somewhere that sharing is caring," he pauses and smirks when Stiles lifts his free hand to his mouth to try--and ultimately fail--to hold in a giggle, "so it just makes sense to buddy up. Thirdly, who wants to live alone these days? Way too expensive." Derek tuts with exaggerated disapproval. "It's much more reasonable to combine my income with someone else's. And, come on, who in their right mind would want to skip out on the joys of couple life, when you have such great holidays like Valentine's Day?" He doesn't bother keeping the caustic note out of his voice--he wouldn't be able to hide it even if he tried.

Derek anticipates his response, but it's no less satisfying when Stiles' ruckus of a laugh animates his whole face. It's the best kind of reward, in Derek's modest opinion, and he smiles a smile of his own when Stiles lifts his gaze to Derek's eyes. He looks delighted, to say the least, as he twists his hand gently out of Derek's hold to lace their fingers together. "Such sensible notions," Stiles says in a sardonic drawl. "And so romantic, too. But I bet you say that to all the starving biology majors."

"Not even remotely," Derek says dryly. A surprised laugh bursts out of Stiles with a grin already on his lips, and it's bright and everywhere and Derek loves how free it makes him feel to hear it, to know _he did that._ He stands up from his desk chair and Stiles is right there, pulling him close. Those lustrous honey-and-mocha eyes smile at him, because of him, and Derek feels something extraordinary take root in his chest.


End file.
